Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child(8)

That kiss.

The way he'd held her. Plundered her mouth. As if no time had passed since they'd been lovers.

As if he still owned her. Not that he ever had, but that was the way  he'd acted when they were together, as if she belonged to him even  though she'd known he had no wish to belong to her.

Had it all been an act for Ferrantes? The kiss? The outrageous bid? The  promise? The questions were endless, but the one that mattered most was  the one she'd posed to de Souza.

"What do we do now?" she'd said.

That had earned her another little smile.

"We wait to hear from Senhor Orsini, of course." The smile had turned  sly. "It is good to have such a powerful man as a friend, yes?"

The way he'd said "friend" had made her want to slap his face.

But she hadn't.

She knew how things looked. Dante had kissed her and she had responded,  but so what? It was a simple matter of hormones and he was an expert at  making her hormones respond. Besides, he'd caught her by surprise. She  had never expected to see him again, never wanted to see him again.

He meant nothing to her; he never had. It had taken her a while to  figure that out-his easy disposal of her had wounded her pride, that was  all.

She was over him. Completely over him, and-

What was that?

Gabriella threw up her hand. Lights blazing through the front windows from a fast-moving vehicle all but blinded her.

Her heart began to gallop.

"Ferrantes," she whispered. It had to be him, hot with fury. Dante had  made a fool of him in front of everyone, and, he would surely think, so  had she.

Tires squealed. A car door slammed. Footsteps pounded up the steps to  the veranda and a hand stabbed at the doorbell, over and over and over.

Her mind raced.

What should she do? Phone the policia? The nearest station was miles  away. Besides, would they give a damn? Ferrantes was of this place. She  was not. Not anymore. Her father had seen to that.

He'd told endless lies about her, turned her into an outsider …

The bell was still ringing and now the sound of a fist pounding on the  door added to the din. She could not let this continue. It was too much,  far too much, and she gave one last frantic look up the stairs before  she took a deep breath, went to the door and flung it open.

But it wasn't Ferrantes filling the night with his presence.

It was Dante. And even as her traitorous heart lifted at the sight of  him, the expression on his face made the breath catch in her throat.

Dante saw a rush of emotions flash across Gabriella's face.

Surprise. Shock. Fear. And, just before that, something he couldn't identify. Not that it mattered.

Whatever she felt was meaningless compared to his rage.

She was good, though. He could almost see her clamp the lid on all the things she'd felt on seeing him again.

"Dante," she said, as politely as a capable hostess greeting a  not-so-welcome drop-in guest. "I didn't expect to see you tonight."

"I'll bet you didn't."

"In fact, I thought-Senhor de Souza and I both thought-you'd gone back to New York."

"Without signing over the deed?"

She could almost see the sneer on his face. Don't react to it, she told herself, and forced a calm response.

"I only meant-"

"Trust me, sweetheart. I know exactly what you meant." He smiled; he  could feel the pressure of his lips drawing back from his teeth. "Aren't  you going to ask me in?"

She hesitated. He couldn't blame her. She was far from stupid.                       
       
           



       

"Actually, it's rather late."

"It's the shank of the evening. Back home, you and I would be heading out for a late supper right about now."

She flushed. "That was a long time ago."

"Supper," he said, as if she hadn't spoken, "and then maybe a stop at  one of those little clubs way downtown that you liked so much."

"You liked them," she said stiffly, "I preferred simpler places."

He felt a stir of anticipation in his blood. Her accent had just  thickened. She had only the slightest accent. She'd told him once, in a  rare moment when they'd talked about their lives, that she'd been  tutored in English from childhood-but her accent always grew more  pronounced when she was trying to contain her emotions.

In bed, for example.

When they'd been making love. Her whispered words would take on the soft  sounds of her native tongue. Sometimes she'd say things to him in  Portuguese. Things he had not understood but his body, his mouth, his  hands had known their meaning.

He looked down at her, his muscles tense.

"But you liked what we did when we went back to your apartment or mine," he said, his voice low and rough. "What we did in bed."

Her color deepened. Or maybe the rest of her face turned pale. He didn't  give a damn. If she thought she was going to control the situation the  way she'd controlled it this morning, she was in for a hell of a  surprise.

She took a deep breath that lifted her breasts. They seemed larger than  in the past. Fuller. But then, he hadn't seen her breasts in a very long  time.

Too long, he thought, and a surge of hot lust rolled deep in his belly.

Lust? For a woman with no makeup on her face? A woman wearing a loose  cotton top over baggy jeans? Hell, she looked beautiful anyway, though  he had never seen her dressed like this before. She'd always worn chic  designer clothes when they were together. Her own clothes, though he'd  often tried to buy things for her.

"I prefer to pay for my own things," she'd always said with a polite  smile. She'd used that same line when he tried to buy her any but the  simplest of gifts.

She didn't need convincing anymore, he thought coldly. She hadn't  blinked an eye at his dropping five million bucks on her this morning.

"Whatever we did in New York is over, senhor."

"Such formality, sweetheart. After all we've been to each other?"

"The past," she said stiffly, ignoring his remark, "has no bearing on this matter."

"But it does," he said softly. "After all, I bought this house today."

She nodded, folded her arms over her breasts. "Yes. And … and it was a very kind thing for you to-"

"Based on the way you looked at your boyfriend, I have to assume you were glad I did."

"Sim. I was. But Ferrantes is not-"

"Your lover." He shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever you want to call him."

He watched the tip of her tongue peep out, watched it sweep across her  lips and hated himself for the way it made him feel, hated her for doing  it. It was deliberate; everything she'd done from the second she'd set  eyes on him this morning had been deliberate.

"Must have been hell, a woman as fastidious as you, sleeping with a man like-"

She slapped him. Her hand moved so fast he never really saw the blow  coming. The best he could do was jerk back, grab her wrist, twist it  behind her as he tugged her toward him.

"What's the matter, baby? Does the truth hurt?"

"Get out," she hissed. "Get out of my house!"

"This isn't your house. Not anymore."

Tears filled her eyes. Angry tears, phony tears. One of the two. He knew damned well they couldn't be any other kind.

"I bought it. Just as you assumed I would."

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Assumed?" A choked laugh  burst from her throat. "I didn't even know you were in Brazil! Come to  think of it, why are you in my country?"

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I didn't come looking for you."

She knew that. Still, hearing it hurt. It was time to hurt him back.

"I came on business. Family business."

"Ah, yes," she said, tossing her head. "The famous famiglia Orsini. How could I have forgotten?"

She gasped as his hold on her tightened. In the few months they'd been  together, they had never discussed his family, his father's underworld  connections. She'd have known about it, of course.

That the Orsini brothers were sons of Cesare Orsini was favorite gossip-column fodder.                       
       
           



       

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that perhaps the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Dammit, you're hurting me!"

She was twisting against his hand, trying to get free, but each jerk of her body only brought her more closely against him.

It was agony.

Exquisite agony.

The soft brush of her breasts against the hardness of his chest. The  whisper of her belly against his. The feel of her thighs rubbing lightly  over his. Just the sight of her, all that sun-streaked hair tumbling  around her face, that lush mouth, the eyes deep enough for a man to get  lost in.

Memories swept through him.

The feel of her, moving beneath him.

The scent of her, when he brought her to climax.

The taste of her mouth, her skin, her clitoris.